


Stronger Together

by MerKat



Series: MerKat RPs [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Case Fic, Guide!Greg, Hurt/Comfort, Injured!greg, M/M, Minor Violence, Sentinel!Mycroft, Sentinel/Guide, Telepathic Bond, Top!Mycroft, bottom!Greg, bottom!Mycroft, top!Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerKat/pseuds/MerKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's body, and his shields, are injured in the first of a series of bombings that has NSY and Mycroft, his bonded Sentinel, scrambling for answers. Unfortunately, the constant strain of their separation during the investigation might be more than their bond can handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft moaned as Greg slid into him. His Guide filled his body, held him close and wrapped around his mind. For once, all of the work and worry melted away. He focused his eyes on Greg's dark brown gaze and leaned up to kiss him. He never felt so complete as in these precious moments. He shifted his hips to meet Greg’s thrusts, wrapping his legs around his waist. For as long as he thought he'd never meet his Guide, Greg was worth all the waiting; he was the only one who could reach Mycroft.

"Oh god, My," Greg moaned, pausing a moment to try and pull himself together. It was a treat, to slip into his bonded's mind like this, to slip into his body like this. He loosed a shuddering breath and pulled his hips slowly out for a gentle thrust back in. He had to close his eyes under the onslaught of sensations, his heart feeling like it was full to burst, as he leaned done for another slow kiss. There were times they fucked hard and fast, like after rough cases or when My lost an agent, but he preferred, and he thought his Sentinel did too, these slow love-making sessions more, when they had time to feel each other out and just enjoy the ride.

"My bonded," murmured Mycroft, one hand carding through his grey hair. His mind sunk deeper into his Guide, twining like their fingertips against the sheets. It was like dancing slow, head against his Guide's shoulder, letting him lead. Letting himself surrender. 

It wasn't long before the Guide couldn't tell whose pleasure was whose, whose orgasm was surging forward through whose cock. But when one was as old and as experienced as they were, it didn't much matter;they were completely in synch.

When they were done and Greg slept against his side, Mycroft watched him in the dim light. There were rumors, more than usual, that some danger was coming. Of course he was doing his best to ferret it out. But if the attack slipped through, if danger exploded on the London streets, he knew his lover would be there, doing his own duty by the city they loved. With a heavy sigh, he curled up around Greg, as if he could shield him with his body alone. 

**.oOo.**

There was no reason to expect a bomb to have been waiting for them at the crime scene of a gunshot victim. The explosion had rocked the buildings around them, torn the house they were in to rubble. Greg’s shields were barely holding together, fractured and crumbling, and the high emotions everywhere were deteriorating what was left. Frantically, he tried to gather what was left tight around him, but he was dazed and his head may have been bleeding. In one moment to the next, his shields were gone and so was he.

Mycroft was in delicate negotiations when he felt the air sucked from his lungs. He managed a breathy, "I must go," nearly running back to his office, feeling frantically for his Guide. It had to be Greg, but there was only deafening silence. 

Two minutes in his office told him everything he could know. If it was any closer he'd have run to the scene. Instead a car was waiting as soon as he exited. At an apparently ordinary crime scene, someone had planted a bomb timed to explode when the police were there. _When Greg was there._

He barely noticed Sherlock and John as he got out of the car and rushed towards the rubble, heedless. John physically hauled him back. "It's not safe." Mycroft twitched, feeling the Guide trying to slow his mind. 

It rankled Sherlock to see his bonded use his empathy on anyone who wasn’t him, but it wasn’t hard to see how even the potential loss of Lestrade was threatening to break his brother. Just thinking of losing John made the Sentinel’s heart flutter and his Guide shot him a worried look, taking an aborted step forward, even as the detective shook his head and gestured at Mycroft. He supposed he could set aside their feud for the moment and help. He took a discreet sniff towards the other Sentinel, ignoring the scent strains that belonged to Mycroft, and reaffirmed to himself the ones that belonged to Lestrade before he set through the ruins, his ears, nose, and eyes strained for any signs of his brother’s bonded.

Taking a deep breath, then another, Mycroft stepped out of John's grasp and moved towards Sherlock. Sirens told him the place would soon be swarming with emergency personnel, though no doubt they would sweep for further bombs before getting to work. For the moment, an eerie stillness hung in the air. Shifting brick behind him told him John had found someone and was carefully bringing them out. Sherlock crouched and Mycroft moved his senses towards him. There. Sherlock must have realized at the same time because he took a few shuffling steps and started working. Mycroft silently crouched next to him, carefully shifting the rubble. 

It was impossible to not recognise when one was in their own mind. Only problem was, Greg couldn't remember how he got here. Which meant that he had swooned. Something he hadn't done since... God, since he was in uni! And then he remembered his bonded; the Sentinel who would be left vulnerable by his being trapped by his own mind. Greg cursed, propping his hands on his hips and turning in a helpless circle. Without warning, a hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped, whirling in an abrupt about-face.

John looked up into Greg’s eyes. He could see the fear and worry in his friend’s eyes. “They’re pulling you out physically right now. Come on, I can lead you out.”

Mycroft smelled his bonded before they cleared the last bit of rubble. The emergency personnel were here now and as Greg came free he bit down another wave of panic. At least one broken bone, numerous contusions, a possible concussion…

“Sentinel.” The paramedics were carefully taking Gregory from him. “There are other injured, perhaps you could help us locate them?”

Part of Mycroft wanted to snarl at him, to tell him his _Guide_ was gravely injured. But Greg would want him to help save who he could, and besides, there was nothing he could do for him right now. John was already guiding him out of his swoon; he could feel the other Guide’s presence at the edge of his mind. “Very well.”

**.oOo.**

Every bit of his body ached as Greg floated towards consciousness, but it wasn't as bad as the rawness of his shields. They felt like they had been stretched as far as they could go. Which was still almost more than he could stand. He let out a pained hiss, and a low wash swept over him like a balm over a wound, cradling his mind, shielding. It was an empathy he'd gotten to know rather well over the past few years, and for a moment, he let it do what it was trying to do. "Thank you, John," he croaked, eyes remaining stubbornly closed against the familiar brightness of hospital lights.

“Do you want me to tell Mycroft you’re awake?” John gently held Greg’s hand.

“I’m aware.” Mycroft stood in the doorway, swallowing as he looked at his Guide.

"My?" Greg called, more than unwilling to open his eyes just yet. He tried to raise the hand not held by his friend, only for it to feel like he was trying to raise a vehicle. And it _hurt_. He bit back a pained gasp at the sensation, breathing as steadily as he was able to through his nose. A moment later, the hand around his was slipping away and another was taking its place. Just being near his Sentinel did wonders for him, and slowly, he pressed his mind against My's shields and he was let in, a ragged moan of relief falling from his mouth. Another Guide could only help so much, but it was melding your mind with your bonded that accomplished the true healing.

Smoothing back Greg’s hair, Mycroft tried to keep his emotions in check. “Most of your team will be fine,” he said softly. “Though there are serious injuries. Donovan is still in surgery. And of course they are doing all they can to find the source of the bomb.”

"Did I lose anyone?" The deeper he sunk into the safety of his Sentinel's mind, the stronger his shields felt, but it was like finally feeling better after a week out with the flu: the illness has passed, but it still took time to recover. It made him drowsy, but he fought with everything he was to stay awake. He _needed_ to know.

“Three of your people,” said Mycroft softly, giving him the names and squeezing his hand. He knew how very much Greg hated to lose anyone. “My understanding is that you were lucky as you’d taken most everyone to a side to go over the scene just before it went off, taking them farther from the blast. This was not your fault in the least, Gregory.”

The Guide tried to swallow his grief over the team members he had lost. As horrible as it was, he felt relieved that none of the three names were ones he knew well; no one that he worked with directly in his daily life. He could only imagine the kind of mess he would be if he had to deal with rebuilding his shields at the same time he had to deal with the loss of someone he truly cared for. "Are you looking for who did this?"

“You know I am,” said Mycroft softly, perhaps a hint of danger in his tone. “You should rest, Gregory. I will still be here when you wake.”

"Can't you take me home?" He hated how small his voice sounded, but he couldn't stand the thought of being left in the hospital, surrounded by people in pain and grieving. He wasn't strong enough to rebuild his shields if he stayed here. The best way would be to stick by My, but in his state, he knew he wasn't fit to accompany the government official on the kind of excursions he knew his bonded would have to go on after something of this nature. Second best options was to be home, where all of their things were imbued with psychic energy over the years.

Leaning over, Mycroft kissed his forehead. “I’ll talk to the doctors, see what I can do to get you cleared as quickly as possible. I can always hire a nurse, if they insist.”

Greg tried not to laugh. "We could always ask John." His lips quirked at the thought. "I'm sure Sherlock would take that well when there's a mystery to solve." He could just imagine the tantrum the Sentinel would throw, the things he would do to convince his Guide to abandon Greg to go solve that puzzle. There was a huff of laughter in his hair followed by the slow caress of fingers until he fell asleep.

Mycroft pulled the strings he needed in order for Greg to be sent home. He did make sure there was a nurse, an unbonded Guide, who could help Greg recover in more than one way. He hated to not be there when his bonded woke again, but he knew he was in good hands. And he knew Sherlock and John were already on the trail.

He didn’t arrive home until nearly five in the morning, exhausted. They still hadn’t found the perpetrator, but John had insisted that they all go rest before taking up the trail again. And the Guide was right. Sherlock might go days without sleep, but he and John needed their rest. _Even more so now_ , thought Mycroft ruefully. 

It was comforting to feel Greg’s presence as he entered the house. The nurse was sleeping lightly in the next room, but his lover was curled up in their bed, looking small. Mycroft quickly shed his clothes and slipped into his favorite pyjamas, a pair Greg had given him for Christmas four years earlier. He felt Greg stir as he tried to get in bed without waking him, tentatively touching his mind.

Even deep asleep, Greg knew when the Guide nurse had fallen asleep, because their shields had slowly faded from arounded his. Safe at home, the rawness was nowhere as bad as it had been in the hospital, especially as the next closest person to him was already shielding their mind. But it wasn't until he felt the touch of his Sentinel's mind against his own that he could truly relax. Right now, with his shields the way they were, he was in a more meditative state than a slumbering one, and he debated on whether or not he wanted to rouse himself. After a moment, he began the slow process of pulling himself from his mind, reveling in his Sentinel's firm embrace. "No luck?" he asked by way of greeting.

"Not so far," Mycroft kissed him gently and held him tighter, mindful of the broken arm. "Go back to sleep."

"Okay," Greg murmured, pressing his nose to the hollow of his bonded's throat. He may not have enhanced senses like his Sentinel, but there was still a scent there that never failed to relax him. Slowly, the steady beat of My's heart lulled him to a proper sleep.

**.oOo.**

Two days later, at another murder victim's crime scene, another bomb was detonated. After his nurse calmed him down from a nearly-Sherlock-level tantrum, he instructed, via text, as he wasn't allowed out of his own home, that bomb dogs should sniff out every murder victim's crime scene. Despite that, a bomb was detonated and lives were lost no less than four more times over the next two weeks. But what terrified him more was that with all the stress, and his bonded's continual absence from his side, his shields weren't healing, and what was left wasn't strengthening. And the more vulnerable he was, the more vulnerable his Sentinel was.

Mycroft headed for home. It was the middle of the night again and exhaustion seemed to cling to every bone. He should take a day off, he knew that, but that this bomber should continue to work their destruction was maddening. All he wanted right now was his Guide by his side. Maybe if Greg was feeling up for it they could take a hot bath together. 

Greg knew something was wrong as soon as he woke up. There was no trace of his Sentinel against his mind and the bed next to him was cold. Any other time, he may have expected it; both My and him worked a lot of hours that had no consistency to them. But his bonded knew how much his shields' repair counted on his presence. He would have come home. Unless something was wrong. Unless something was very, very, _very_ wrong.

"Jones!" he bellowed. He could hear the man fall out of his chair in the next room. "Jones! Bring me my mobile!"

**.oOo.**

As soon the car stopped, Mycroft knew what was about to happen. Uncertain which side the attack would come from, he used his senses. There. As the door opened he was already out the other side, umbrella in hand. The figures were dressed darkly, but that was nothing compared to a powerful Sentinel. 

Still, he was well outnumbered. They weren't entirely stupid. Four rushed him at once and he took down three. The fourth slashed his arm. _Bloody hell, this is a new suit_. At least they were trying to take him alive. Mycroft himself had much fewer qualms, breaking the arm of the next one to reach him. More came at him and his exhaustion slowed his movements. He lost his footing and hit the ground, kicking and breaking the knee of the one that tried pinning him. 

A gunshot broke the air and he smiled grimly. Greg. Or Anthea. Probably her. Maybe both. 

All Greg could do was stare in amazement as Anthea shot out eight consecutive kneecaps. Each man screamed as they crumpled to the ground, and his Sentinel, laying amongst them, flinched, gaze going a bit distant as he concentrated on lowering his hearing. It wasn't something the man had to do often, mainly because Greg was always there to filter the unnecessary from his Sentinel's sensitive senses. Several of My's minions rushed forward, restricting the attackers and hauling them away. Greg knew he would never see them again, but he didn't care about that right now. He limped over on his sprained ankle, and dropped down next to his bonded's side, taking the man's face in his hands and kissing him soundly. "You. Our bed. Right now," he instructed. "And you are not leaving until my shields are healed. I had to rely on _Anthea_ to find you."

Mycroft kissed him back and wrapped his arms around him in a sudden and rare display of public affection. “Okay,” he whispered. He knew he had a few scrapes and cuts himself, but he was pretty sure the suit had taken the worst of it. He didn’t want to hear Greg complain how many layers he wore for a while. He carefully got up himself before helping his Guide, keeping an arm around him as they headed for the car.

The way My had responded to his kiss, even with others watching, told him how much his bonded needed him. That thought was only enforced when he settled inside the car's sturdy, leather interior and the Sentinel settled against him, close enough to be considered, at least for him, ‘clingy’. Anthea got in as well, placing herself across from them with her nose in her Blackberry, ignoring the glare Greg was sending her way. As grateful as he was for her help, Greg just really wanted some alone time with his Sentinel to renew their bond. But since that couldn’t happen until they got home, it was time to concentrate on something else. "So, the bomber found you before you found them?"

Mycroft was slouched against Greg’s chest. He really didn’t want to answer the question, but he opened his mouth. Anthea cut him off. “You are off duty, sir.”

Giving her a tired, wry smile, he looked up at Greg. “I do believe that means I’m not allowed to answer questions you already know the answer to.”

"And if my shields and my power were at full strength, I wouldn't have to ask," Greg snarked back, and then immediately regretted it when the minor cheer disappeared from his Sentinel's face and the man tensed up against his side. The Guide sighed, dropping his head back against the seat. "I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't mean it like that. I know what you do out there everyday. Not just for us, but for the country. I'm grateful for all that, and I didn't mean to take my anger and my worry out against you. I don't resent you for being gone as much as you are, either--I wish you didn't have to be, but I understand why, and I do _not_ resent it."

Mycroft sighed and fingered his chest. “I knew I should have taken a day off. I knew I should just spend time with you to help you. But I have been so focused on finding the bomber… So afraid that if I didn’t keep on the trail then more people would die... I’m exhausted,” he admitted.

Greg captured the tapping fingers and pressed a kiss to the tip of each delicate digit. "You did what you had to. But after this, you can take some time off and let your minions do your dirty work. I need you at home, with me, until I'm better. If you don't, if something like this happens again and I can't track you because I'm too weak, and if they're not too stupid to take your mobile from you, then I could lose you, and that would break me in more ways than one." He rested his head against the top of auburn hair, keeping those fingers pressed to his lips.

With a sigh, Mycroft looked at his hand in Greg’s and the gorgeous lips. No doubt Anthea was already tripling his home security. Even the nurse was a former soldier and had been selected to keep Greg safe in every way. Relaxing further, he gently slipped into Greg’s mind. “When we get home I want us both in a hot bath.” He noticed Anthea was typing again her mobile. No doubt she was making sure the bath would be ready for them.

"You won't hear me complain," Greg chuckled, sighing in relief at the sensation of his Sentinel against his mind. Every minute My was in there with him mended another hole in his shield. He dozed on their way home, and was woken only by Anthea stepping out of the car and holding the door open for them. As soon as the front door was locked behind them and they were enclosed in the steaming master bath, they began to undress one another, becoming a tangle of limbs when they tried to kiss each bit of skin revealed.

Smiling softly, Mycroft ran his hands down Greg’s chest. There were still fading contusions, but clearly he was healing. His own cuts and scrapes were a lot more fresh and he saw the inspector eyeing him. Reaching up, Mycroft cupped his cheek and kissed him again, arousal twitching in his pants.

Greg moaned into the kiss, rocking his hips forward to press his growing erection against his bonded's thigh, feeling an answering hardness against his own. "What happened to a hot bath?" he breathed into the air between their lips with a grin. Instead of an answer, his belt was unbuckled and his trousers unbuttoned and unzipped, and they slid down his legs without effort. The Guide took a quick step back pulling off his shoes and socks, and shucking his trousers and pants. Finally, he was naked and he turned away slowly, throwing a coy look over his shoulder before ruining the effect by limping to the full tub and lowering himself into the steaming water, careful to keep his cast dry. "Coming?" he asked after a minute had passed and My hadn't moved.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Mycroft slowly slipped behind him, also mindful of the cast. He settled Greg against his chest, kissing just behind his ear and, under the water, he took Greg in hand. “I wouldn’t change anything about you.”

The Guide moaned low in his throat, dropping his head back onto his Sentinel's shoulder as the firm hand around his cock began to stroke him in time with the beat of his heart. Kisses were pressed to the column of his neck and shoulder, and he could only hum in response, though he sent a wave of comfort and gratitude through their mental connection. He could feel his bonded sinking further and further into his mind, the repair of his shields slowly increasing the stronger their connection became. It felt like he was becoming whole again.

Mycroft’s own erection grew even thicker at the soft moans and the way their minds joined. He sent his own feelings of love and safety to Greg, holding him a little tighter against him. His hand moved slowly, calculated to drawing out maximum pleasure. For the moment, nothing existed beyond the warmth of the tub and their warm bodies against one another.

Planting his good foot against the side of the end wall of the tub, Greg began to rock gently into the thick erection between his arse cheeks, careful to not become too exuberant and slosh water to the floor. It had been a long time since his Sentinel had been the one to top, and he wasn't sure what he needed more tonight: his bonded in him or him in his bonded. So he simply said, "I need you, My," and waited for his Sentinel to decide.

It was easy to feel Greg’s need. “Not in the tub,” muttered Mycroft, nibbling on his shoulder. He got up and helped Greg up and out. Then he quickly toweled him off, leaning down to lick his cock. “I will take care of you tonight,” he promised, running the towel over himself before leaving it on the bathroom floor and helping him into the bedroom.

He stole another kiss as they reached the bed. Greg lay back, looking up at him, trusting, legs slightly parted. Mycroft retrieved the lube and lay along his side, reveling in the skin to skin, kissing him slowly as he started fingering him open.

It had been so long since My had topped that just one finger felt so deliciously filling that it was possibly more trouble than it was worth to stay absolutely still. But it wasn't enough. Before he could even open his mouth to beg for a second finger, his Sentinel was pressing it into him, slow and easy. "My psychic Sentinel," he gasped, tossing his head back for his bonded's lips and teeth to attack his neck.

Mycroft smiled before biting his lower lip as a preamble to nipping down his jaw and neck, fingers thrusting a little faster as he sucked a hickey into his shoulder. At least one bruise should be because of him, after all. Greg’s moans were delicious and his mind was humming with the pleasure of it. The Guide’s legs spread for him, and Mycroft unconsciously rutted against his thigh, smearing sticky precome.

The third finger stretching him burned, and he moaned low in his chest at the sting of pain combined with the pleasure of gentle fingers against his prostate. He pressed his good foot to the bed and began raising and lowering his hips to encourage the deepening of those digits inside him. All the while, his cock remained untouched while My's rubbed against his thigh in rhythm with the fingers inside him. Everything was getting to be nearly too much and he had to stop it now, or else the night would be over too quickly. Unable to trust his voice, he sent intense feelings of _hurry_ across their connection.

Without thought, Mycroft shifted between his thighs, withdrawing his fingers and pressing into him in almost the same movement. “Gregory,” he murmured against his neck, letting their minds connect even deeper. They groaned in unison as he started to move.

It was absolute bliss, being filled full-to-bursting with his Sentinel as their minds merged nearly into one. The healing on his shields was gaining speed, and it amazed him how quickly they were doing so, how much he needed just this, just the two of them. Each thrust of My's hips was like another wave of strength into his shields as he experienced the phantom pleasure of his hole tight around his Sentinel's cock. Combined with his own feelings of having his walls stroked and his prostate pressed and his cock between their stomachs, he nearly lost his mind. As it was, he mindlessly turned his head to bite the pillow, his casted-hand laying useless on the sheets and his other up around his bonded's freckled neck.

Mycroft moved faster, deeper, trying to keep from overwhelming his injured Guide. He sought out Greg’s lips and kissed him hard, swallowing his groans and small cries, orgasm already nearing until it crashed over them both and all he could do was cling to Greg, tears stinging his eyes.

As the last shocks of pleasure faded from his nerves, Greg realised he was being held in a crushing embrace that he eagerly returned. The relief and the exhaustion and the almost-losses that rushed across their bond to him had his eyes welling up and tears spilling across his cheeks. But as something wet began to drip on him from above, he knew he wasn't the only one. Slowly, he guided his Sentinel's face to the crook of his neck to nuzzle, and slid his fingers into mussed auburn waves, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of an ear. "It's all right, l-- _we're_ fine. We're still together, so we're fine," he kept whispering.

Mycroft sighed heavily against him. “I need you,” he said softly. “We need to stop whoever is doing this.” Only Greg would know how much the loss of life was weighing on him, the guilt he didn’t even want to admit to himself. To the world he had to be calm, cool and collected. But here, in his bonded’s arms, he could remember that he was human, he could let himself feel. He knew he’d be utterly lost now without him.

"I know, My. And we will. Well, if Sherlock and John don't beat us to it," he tried to joke, wanting to lighten the mood, even just a little. His Sentinel looked up at him and gave him a watery smile, followed by a soft kiss that would have made him hard again if he were twenty years younger. 

Mycroft gave a huff of laughter at the twitch, knowing neither of them would be really up again for a while. “Let me clean us up, then you and I are sleeping in.”

Greg's chuckle was interrupted by a groan when his bonded pulled out. He resisted the urge to pull the man back to bed and waited patiently as My brought back a warm, damp cloth to clean him up. The Guide let out a sharp bark of laughter when his posh bonded just carelessly tossed the rag to the side, not even aiming for the hamper, before rejoining him in bed, pulling Greg tight against his chest. The moment grew sober again, until he mumbled, "Now that I think about it, we'll probably have to fight Anthea to the finish line, too." There was a moment of silence and then quiet laughter ruffled his hair and he pressed a smile to the man's neck.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

It was another couple of days before Mycroft was finally able to leave the house with his Guide by his side. There had been another bombing this morning, and things were tense in the car, Mycroft’s fingers entwined with Greg’s. The inspector still had the cast, of course, but he was nearly walking without a limp. When the pair walked into New Scotland Yard, there was a spontaneous round of applause that had Greg blushing.

They got to work, John dragging Sherlock in to go over what they’d learned and had been doing. At least there were a few leads now and Mycroft had no doubt they were dealing with someone clever and dangerous.

The four of them spent the next week pent up in one of NSY's small conference rooms, barely sleeping and sleeping poorly when they managed to lose consciousness. Because of the insomnia-induced exhaustion, despite his shields now being at 100%, Greg hadn't even noticed his Sentinel leaving the small conference room until he returned with four tall white cups in a posh-looking beverage carrier, the fresh scent of steaming coffee rousing Greg from his stupor. One sip from the cup handed to him had his eyes fluttering closed at the exquisite taste, and he finally decided it might be time for a break. On the other side of the room, John was standing back, watching his Sentinel pace back and forth along a wall covered in papers and pictures, and My was handing him two cups. The other Guide took a sip from one and then stepped forward to gesture with the other cup at something on the wall. When Sherlock stepped forward to bend and look, John seamlessly handed him the second cup without a look, looking for all the world as if he'd done nothing of the sort. Greg snorted when the Sentinel took a sip without thinking,then sputtered in apparent surprise.

"When did you get--" he started and then stopped, nostrils flaring as he turned and looked at his older brother. He gave the man a contemplative glare then turned back to his wall of evidence, continuing to drink. At his side, John pretended not to smile and Sherlock pretended not to see it. Greg had no such compunction and beamed a victorious smile at his bonded. He knew the Holmes brothers had been raised in such a way that they had not been encouraged towards a caring relationship, and it had only gotten worse over the years, to the point that Sherlock wouldn't even be in the same room as My when Greg had gotten to know them seven years back. It hadn't been until John Watson had come along, two years ago, that things had started to look up for his long-suffering, patient bonded.

Mycroft came back around to Greg’s side, squeezing his shoulder. “I made reservations for dinner for tonight. Assuming we manage to keep them,” he said quietly. He couldn’t help but feel like they were getting closer. At least there hadn’t been any more bombings for the last few days. Either they were getting better at spotting them or the bomber was waiting or they were getting close. At least they’d narrowed the manufacturer down to a specific area of London.

"Sure, okay," Greg mumbled, frowning down at a still from a video. A witness had been recording a family member when their camera had captured a murder; the murder from the third bombing. In the foreground was a teenager in the midst of some strange, possibly-acrobatic demonstration; in the middle were two women, one knifing the other; and in the back was a small, dark-haired man handing a large brown grocery bag and a large wad of money to a familiar looking child.

"My," he called, beckoning absent-mindedly and almost hitting his bonded in the face with one hand while his other worked on pulling up a photo on his mobile. "I need to know first of all what that bag looks like it holds," he said, pointing to the brown bag, "and I need to know if these two children are the same," he finished, putting his mobile down on the still. On the screen was a photo he'd taken of one of the many youth football groups he'd come across over the years, and he'd zoomed in on one of the boys' face.

Mycroft frowned but quickly did what he asked. He’d long ago learned to trust Greg’s instincts, especially in matters that weren’t his expertise. In less than an hour they had a rudimentary plan. Sherlock and John were going to investigate a few other things, Greg and Mycroft were going to see if they could check out this kid.

Of course Greg insisted on driving. It wouldn’t make sense for Mycroft’s car to be in this neighborhood. Mycroft couldn’t help but be tense. “I hope this cracks it open.”

"Me too," the detective replied, carefully scanning the park for signs of life. Finally, movement attracted his sharp eye and he'd barely hit the brakes before he was putting the machine into 'Park'. He hadn't even pulled out of the street, just left his car alongside another's and his bonded in the car as he quickly jogged to the small cluster of children by a goal. For a moment, they all tensed and turned, as if they were going to dart away any second. But a moment later, they recognised him and swarmed him instead, and he collapsed under their attentions easily, crumpling to the green in laughter under their combined weight.

Mycroft bit back a smile as he made his way over. He knew about Greg’s sometimes weekend activities, of course, but it was another thing to see it in action. The kids laughed and pulled back. It made his heart tug, to wonder if maybe Greg wanted a child of his own. Mycroft had never considered it; for him, taking care of Sherlock had been enough.

After several long minutes of trying to calm the children with not just words and hand gestures, but also an outpouring of empathy, he finally got them quiet enough to get off his back and to his knees on the damp grass before inquiring the whereabouts of the boy in the photo, Billy. He didn't need powers to understand the suddenly-uncomfortable atmosphere.

"We haven't seen him in days, Mr Lestrade," little Piper chirped helpfully. He smiled at her and held up the enhanced photo of the dark haired man.

"What about this man?" he asked. "Have you seen him?" Several of the kids leaned forward, frowning at the gritty quality, though they all suddenly tensed, eyes darting over his shoulder. He turned on his knees, smearing mud on his trouser legs, to see My strolling towards them. He stripped one glove from his fingers and held it out for his Sentinel to take with a warm smile. These kids were from rough neighborhoods, and they needed people to trust in. And if they could trust him, they needed to know they could trust his bonded too.

Mycroft took his hand, looking the children over and giving them a smile, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad to finally meet you,” he said. He saw them looking at him doubtfully. He rarely dealt with children in his daily life. Mindful of the mud, he crouched next to Greg. “It would be very good, if you could help us.”

"This is my bonded Sentinel, Mycroft," Greg introduced in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "Do you remember all those explosions a few weeks back?" The children nodded and more than one pair of understanding eyes shot down to his casted wrist. It was the same for a lot of the children from the poor neighborhoods: treated like they didn't have an ounce of brain in their heads when they were some of the smartest, most innovative humans out there. There had been explosions, he had gone missing for a few weeks, and now he was back with a broken arm and looking a bit more scraped up than normal. "Mycroft has been helping me with them and now we need to find this man. We cut the picture to get just this man’s face, but the part that we cut shows that he was talking to Billy, and we need to find them both. Do any of you know where either of them are?"

A few of the kids looked at each other. One of them moved closer, bumping into Mycroft and sending the posh man tottering back into the mud. The girl’s eyes went wide, her whole body stiff with terror. For a moment Mycroft thought of the cost of the suit. But then he realized how ridiculous he must look and burst into laughter as he sat up. “It’s fine,” he said to the child, meeting her eyes.

She smiled back at him, then looked at Greg. “I think I know where to find him.”

Greg was still trying not to laugh at the way his public school Sentinel looked half-covered in mud when Susie spoke up. Immediately he sobered. "Will you tell me?" he asked, fixating on her face with stern yet hopeful eyes.

Susie nodded and quickly told them about the man and the place, looking to the others for confirmation. “He’s been offering a lot of money,” she said quietly.

Mycroft looked at them. “Thank you,” he said, offering her his hand. She shook it.

Greg pursed his lips against his teeth to keep from laughing at the adorably proper handshake. "Thank you, Susie," he said as well, giving her an affectionate ruffle of her hair and she grinned back at him. His smile turned to a grimace when he got to his feet and realised the extent to which his trouser knees were soaked through and muddied. When he turned with an irritated frown to his bonded, the man just gave him a smug smirk. Greg was sorely tempted to push the Sentinel back in the dirt. Instead, he waved to the children as he walked back to his car, My smartly staying just behind him.

Mycroft couldn't help the look on his face as they got back into the car. "I'm sorely tempted to change, but time is of the essence." He delicately wiped his hands on a handkerchief. "You are very good with children," he said quietly, wondering how he'd respond.

The Guide wordlessly started the car and pulled out, one eye sticking to his mobile's screen as he tapped out a broadcast message to his team. This was one unspoken question he didn't much want to answer, mainly because he was afraid of how his Sentinel would react. "The Sentinel I had before you," he started, knowing My would already know what he was talking about--he was under no illusions that he hadn't been thoroughly investigated as soon as he'd come into contact with Sherlock and stayed that way, "we tried to get pregnant. For years. I know I've always wanted them, but she wasn't ever that clear if she did or not. And not long after I found her cheating on me with another Guide, I found out she was pregnant by him too." Greg took a deep breath, knuckles turning white on the wheel. "I don't know if I wasn't... or if she just didn't want to raise a child with me. But I've never stopped wanting one." He shot a look over to his bonded. "I would understand you not wanting one, and that wouldn’t change anything for us. . _You_ are my other half, and I couldn't be happier, all right? No matter what."

Mycroft reached over and squeezed his thigh and chose his words carefully. “I have to admit that, until right now, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I knew about your past of course. I know our schedules are...difficult. But if you wished to adopt, I am certain that we could arrange ourselves around them.” He tried to radiate reassurance. If this was what his Guide really wanted, well, he could hardly deny him anything. Really, Gregory asked for so little from him.

The detective almost ran a red in his surprise. Mycroft had always been nothing but supportive to his wants during their relationship, but he hadn't expected it to extend to, well, _this_. "Thank you. I would like that very much," he managed to say despite the tightness in his throat. His Sentinel did not answer, but he didn't move his hand from Greg's thigh either. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, though the closer they got, the more sober and focused the mood of the car became. And then they pulled up, and he recognised a tenseness in the air he only ever felt around one other person, rather, one other Guide. He loosed a quiet storm of curses, barely resisting the urge to throw up his hands and just go home right now. He did not have the inclination to deal with Sherlock's usually-illegal detecting ways, not today.

Mycroft was out of the car in an instant, stalking towards where he could smell his brother and his bonded. Greg was right behind him. There was someone else here too and he tensed, moving cautiously as he drew closer. Looking around the corner he could see John had his gun drawn on a short, slight man. The stranger smiled darkly as he paced, seemingly uncaring of the gun on him. No doubt that was because there was clearly a sniper with a bead on Sherlock’s chest. Mycroft signaled Greg to move towards where he suspected the sniper was hiding.

The Guide hesitated for a moment, the thought of being so far apart from his bonded at a time like this making a cold shiver roll down his spine. After a narrow glare and another firm hand signal, and a forceful repeat of the image of a pinned-by-sniper Sherlock, Greg nodded and crept through the darkness. Trying to locate the sniper from the position via only a mental image of the bright red dot on his friend's chest left much to be desired, though the plentiful pillars he used as cover provided frequent quick glimpses of the standoff between Sherlock and John, and a young man resembling the one from the photograph. Absently, he let tendrils of his empathy slide through the air, hoping to use his powers to locate whoever was stilling John's (probably illegal) gun from taking out the threat against their bond, and they instantly recoiled, snapping back behind his shields like a child darting to hide behind its mother's skirts. There was another Guide here, one closer to My than him, probably that small, dark-haired man, but his empathy felt _sick_ in a way that made Greg nauseous.

Knowing he was spotted, Mycroft stepped into the open, hoping to buy Greg time. “It’s me you want, isn’t it?” His heart beat fast in his chest, but if he was going to die today, at least he could do it protecting the people he loved.

The dark haired man turned to face him, madness in his eyes. “So nice of you to join us, Mycroft Holmes.”

For some reason, the light echo of the soft Irish lilt surprised him. Geg knew just as well as anyone how appearances could be deceiving, but that didn't stop some people's physical looks versus their crimes to startle him. He didn't let himself falter though, and quickly came upon a set of stairs. Judging from the position of the glowing dot, he should have come across the sniper by now, and as he hadn't, the detective quickly drew his gun and kept to the absolute sides of the stairs to reduce the chance of them creaking. If the sniper had enhanced hearing at all, they would have been able to hear him breathing from downstairs, and that the bead had yet to move indicated a good chance that they either had a different enhanced sense or none at all. In fact, when he rounded the corner at the top, he found a tanned, blond man laying on the ground, a sniper rifle in his arms and a scope pressed to his eye. Greg crept in a wide arc behind the man, and rushed in from the opposite side, kicking the rifle out of the man's grasp hard enough to send it flying through the air and into the darkness.

As soon as the rifle was off Sherlock, John fired. It echoed, making Mycroft wince. A second shot followed the first and Mycroft looked down at himself. Blood was mixing with the mud as he stumbled back and crumpled. John was by his side in a moment. Pain washed through his system and he screwed his eyes tightly shut, trying to shutter his shields so he wouldn't overwhelm Gregory.

The detective's attack had caught the muscled sniper by surprise, and an attempt at arrest had turned into an impromptu wrestling match, though he liked to think it wouldn't have been as difficult if he weren't still obstructed by a cast. Greg had just managed to get out a pair of cuffs when pain from across the bond nearly knocked him breathless. His pause allowed the other man to roll him, a meaty pair of hands encircling his throat and pressing on his airway. Fortunately, adrenaline and fear as to the cause of that pain had him surprising the would-be assassin, knocking him in the head with his cast, rolling the man and reversing their positions. Being such an upstanding police officer, he was averse to killing when it wasn't required of him, but he wasn't averse to slamming the still-breathing man's head into the concrete floor until he blacked out. Greg barely had time to cuff the man to a railing before he was scrambling away, desperate to get to his bonded.

“Greg! Catch the other shooter,” called John as Greg skittered around the corner, waving in the direction Sherlock had gone. John knew Greg’s desperation, but he’d regret it if they didn’t at least try to catch the other one. There was a grunt of pain as Sherlock apparently tackled them. The brothers may not have been close, but that didn’t mean Sherlock wanted to see Mycroft shot.

Mycroft smiled against the pain, feeling John squeeze his hand as he got his shirt open. Second suit that was ruined in two weeks.

Sherlock's heart was pounding and anger was thrumming through his veins. It was true he didn't like his brother much, and he could happily go years without seeing the other Sentinel, but a premature death was utterly unacceptable. Especially by way of murder. His fist slammed down again into the shooter's already beaten face again, and he had just raised it for another when fingers grabbed his wrist. He turned with a snarl, only to be faced by an ill-looking Lestrade. It took him a moment to realise that, despite the firm, near-strangling grasp on his wrist, the DI was trembling.

"I know you have my second pair of handcuffs, Sherlock," Greg said, his voice sounding empty to his own ears. He felt pale, and it was a strange feeling. He wondered if this was how My felt when he'd been caught in that blast. "We need him alive. We still need answers."

John let Greg take over with keeping pressure in the wound when he returned with the other shooter. He moved to the madman that had been at the center of things. He hadn't shot to kill, after all. "Sherlock, go to the street and make sure the ambulance knows we're back here."

Things moved quite quickly after that. The ambulance that arrived for the bomber and My was not like a normal one. Apparently the British Government's team was taking this over before Greg's team could, and honestly, for once, he was quite alright with that. A lot less policies that needed working around to get the answers they needed. The grin of the dark-haired Guide unnerved him and John came to stand at his side as the injured men were loaded away.

"Did you feel his empathy?" he asked. The pain in his own body, the echo from his bonded's wound fading as it was treated and as My moved farther away from him. A car was already moving forward and he had no doubt Anthea was waiting in the back seat to take him to wherever his Sentinel was being taken for treatment.

John nodded. "I've only felt that with bonded that lose their other half. But people don’t survive that, usually." He looked thoughtful. "I suppose if he wanted revenge bad enough that could have seen him through." He looked Greg over critically. "Get yourself checked out, too. You might have opened up wounds. Especially the arm."

Sure enough, when the car pulled up in front of him, Anthea was the one to hold open the door and he clambered inside. The ride to the private care clinic was silent and tense, and Greg only became more so when he found out he wouldn’t be allowed to see his Sentinel for some time, as his bonded was still in surgery. It was a somewhat terrifying and nervous hour later when he was led into My’s room.

Mycroft came awake slowly, moaning softly as he felt his bonded soothing his mind. He opened his eyes and squeezed Greg’s hand, groggy and not trusting himself to speak. He opened his mind a bit more, letting his bonded in. After a couple bleary minutes, he closed his eyes and passed out again.

He was feeling much better by the time he was allowed to go home, but it had been a long stay in the hospital. There were certainly things he could tell Greg, but he kept quiet about what had happened between himself and Moriarty. He’d much rather put that all behind them. Greg had kept him informed on what was going on in London (and Anthea with everything else). The city was back to it’s usual self, for the most part.

Once they were finally in their home and ensconced in bed, Mycroft kissed Greg’s cheek. “I will start the paperwork for our adoption. I trust you to find a good agency.”

Greg paused in the middle of rolling onto his side and blinked over at his Sentinel. Cautiously, he sent a feeler over the bond, trying to parse the statement. There was nothing but eagerness and anticipation there, no hint that his bonded regretted his initial offer, and he finished rolling over, tangling their legs and slinging one arm over his bonded's waist and propped his head up on his other. "All right," he replied. "Do you really think we can make it work?"

“I do, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was quiet as he leaned to kiss him. “I’d rather not an infant, but I do believe we can manage.” He reached up to stroke his bonded’s cheek, feeling the light scruff that lingered there.

The Guide let out a laugh. "God, no. We definitely couldn't handle that." He felt giddy and he let out another laugh, rolling his Sentinel onto his back and slotting himself between the soft thighs, careful to keep his cast pressed to the bed next to My's head. "God, I love you," he breathed, unable to contain himself. He didn't give his bonded a chance to answer--the Sentinel's mouth was much too busy with other sounds.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please leave us a review, and don't forget to drop by tumblr to say 'hi' to [Mer](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) and [Kat](http://themadkatter13-fanfiction.tumblr.com/).


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